


A Walking Bag of Chewed Up Dust and Bones

by Susanwiththescythe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst With A Happyish Ending, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Hand & Finger Kink, Hell Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Gore, Obsessive-Compulsive behaviours, POV Sam Winchester, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Play, Silencing someone without a gag, Spoilers for Supernatural upto s12e05, first time dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9392486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susanwiththescythe/pseuds/Susanwiththescythe
Summary: Sam has had control taken away from him too many times. Dean gives him what he needs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by a wonderful friend who isn't on here, but who put up with me sending partially-done draft after draft after draft. All remaining whatevers are my own.
> 
> A note on the tags:  
> This contains a brief description in flashback of a tiny portion of Sam's time in the cage with Lucifer. This doesn't pass my personal bar for graphic depictions of violence, but other people may feel differently. It is also not a rape scene. Personally, I don't rule out that having happened to Sam at some point during his time in Hell, but the fic does not deal with this directly, so the fic is not currently tagged as containing Rape/Non con. I'm open to discussion if anyone reading this feels it's necessary.
> 
> If I've missed something triggery, please let me know.
> 
> The title is an adaptation of a line from 'Lucky Day in Hell' by Eels, a.k.a. One of the Greatest Bands Ever  
> [Video here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3lg2OU22Ufs)
> 
> Baby's First Wincest. Gulp. Supernatural, what have you done to me? Set some time between S12e03 and S12e05.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters herein. I'm not making any money from this, 'tis a work of a fiction written purely for fun.

Sam's relationship with Cas is complicated at the moment. Not in the Facebook sense of "it's complicated”, but complicated because every time he looks at his friend, just for a moment, he sees Lucifer.  
  
Even though he is sure the Archangel is long gone, even though the knowing smirk has vanished from those big blue eyes, that first infinitesimal moment of every meeting is an electric jolt of pain, at soul level. When it’s a bad day, he remembers those same fingers reaching in, taking, hurting, remembers how that led to _more_ memories that he has worked so hard to forget. Remembers and remembers and remembers until it's all he can do not to scream.  
  
It's only been getting worse since the whole abduction, torture and “interrogation” thing. Cas’s touch had cured the physical hurts, but his angelic energy, though nowhere near as intense as Lucifer’s, had burned like an ice-cold brand on the inside of Sam’s skin. Shortly after, Cas had left with Crowley to hunt for said favourite son of God. It helped for a bit, his absence giving Sam some respite. But lately, he doesn’t even need to see Cas to start having a flashback. The knowledge that the Devil is free once again, and his own role in how it happened, is enough. Sometimes, he wonders why, after all this time, he was still stupid enough to have faith.

His brain seems to delight in finding new ways to screw with him, a feedback loop from one shitty encounter to another. Sometimes, he remembers being with “Lady” Bevell, even if the healing process initially took away the nearness, the _whitehotclutch_ “Fuck! So good!” of the spell-induced hallucination. His treacherous mind insists on some level his body _must_ have wanted her, or she’d never have been able to control him like that, make him the toy to her petulant child. It doesn’t take anything to start it, he can just be sitting reading and then, without thinking, he’ll begin to replay the encounter again and again, bringing it into sharper focus, despite the healing, desperately searching for some indication that he wasn’t enjoying it, could’ve broken free sooner, should’ve seen it for the deception it was…

Sometimes, he catches himself and can derail the thought train. Sometimes, he can’t. His thoughts tick back, back, and further back – _entire body frozen solid until his flesh cracked, but somehow not dead, not dead? why not? jagged cracks criss-crossing his back, then sudden heat below him, fire, thawing what used to be his stomach, hurts, can’t move, he’s tied, no not tied, just stretched, face down spread-eagled, no rope, no chains, but he can’t move can’tmovecan’tmove, fingers, not his, running along the crevasses in his back, stirring up his slowly oozing warming blood, thick like syrup, fingers writing love-hate stories in touches not words, and he’s slowly dripping blood, down his neck, across his cheek, feels it sliding down his ribcage, the sticky sludge of thawing blood between his ass cheeks_ almost like come _and did he think that or did someone make him think that and as he thinks that he’s turning over the flames, meat on a spit, and he knows_ remembers _why he’s not dead, those blue eyes above him say he can never die the smile says his captor will make sure of it those fingers reaching into the bloodslush-filled cavity of his chest to massage his thawing stuttering heart prove it and he would scream if he could but the ice is melting everywhere except his throat_ \- he’ll choke on his own breath, look up, and the clock will be an hour forward of the time he last checked.

Lady Bevell had nothing on Lucifer. Remembering what she did to him feels tame in comparison. Sam embraces it whenever he can.

Sam takes a lot of baths. Even in the bunker, which is lavish in so many respects, the gigantic bathtubs aren't big enough for him to lie flat. But although he has to resort to hooking his feet over the enamel rim at one end, there's something soothing about lying completely submerged except for his nose, water almost too hot for him to bear, pulling the plug, and feeling the drag on his muscles as the water drains away, pulling more than just physical aches and pains with it.  
  
He's got it down to a fine art now, lips and eyes pressed shut so they don't let the water in, but relaxed enough that it's no effort to maintain. Control and comfort balanced on a wire as thin as a hair. He focuses on his heartbeat and the swirling glug of the draining water, letting his head fall back slowly until enough has gone that he can rest his skull on the floor of the tub. Rock-solid self-discipline. After the water has drained away from his face, he opens his eyes, watching as the light reflected by the bathwater makes flickering patterns on the ceiling.  
  
Once the bath is empty, he uses the shower head attached to the taps by a long hose to run the water at a cooler temperature, sprays himself with it all over. He slowly lowers his feet into the tub and sits up a little, working the gentle spray up his body from toes to chest, letting all the blood flow back to where it needs to go, so that when he stands up, there's no dizziness. However the bunker gets its power and water, he must be really adding to the utility bill.

Other than “incest”, they’ve never put a name to it, he and Dean, to this relationship between them. They take their pleasure as and when. They’ve never been exclusive, though obviously Dean plays away more than he does, always has done, and no one’s ever exclusively been “the top”. Dean grumbles occasionally when bottoming “’Swear to God Sammy, one day you’re gonna frickin’ kill me with that thing.” Sam doesn’t know why his brother bitches so much. Given their respective heights, it’s not like anyone in this relationship is exactly _under_ -endowed. It’s casual and it’s not, and it means everything and nothing. Just one more way they’re co-dependent to the point of not even funny anymore. But he knows, they _both_ know, neither of them would change a thing.

Since bringing him home to the bunker, Dean hasn’t looked at him _like that_ in days. At first he was relieved. It was too soon. Then, Mom was still around. And then she wasn’t. And that lead to a week or so when Sam would hardly ever see Dean for most of the day. Sometimes they’d eat together, sometimes not. Sam considered reaching out, uncertain if sex was what Dean would want, doubly uncertain what he would be able to provide. Despite the almost daily bathing, he feels sucked dry, hollowed out. Brittle. If things were to get too much, at any moment he might just crumble to dust and blow away. There’s a strange kind of comfort in that.

And then Dean notices. Or at least, lets him know he’s been noticing.

“Dude, what’s with all the bathing?”

He shrugs in response. “It helps.”

“Obviously not enough, the amount you been doing it.”

“It feels better than not doing it.” Sam’s almost laughing. In all their years of _not_ talking about the difficult things, they’ve evolved only to the extent that they can talk _around_ the point, rather than ignoring it entirely.

 “Anything I can do?” Dean is nothing if not practical in his concern.

“Uh… be patient with me?”

“Anything I _shouldn’t_ do?”

“Just… wait for me, yeah?” It sounds like the same answer to two different questions and in a way it is, but what Sam means the second time is _Please don’t see other people_. Not now.

Thankfully, his brother seems to get it, because he says, “I’m here for you. For… whatever.”

 _“Whatever”_ comes a little unexpectedly a few nights later when Sam, unable to sleep, gets up to have a bath a little after 1am. He’s just towelling himself off when the creak of the door prompts him to turn around.

“What’re you doin’ Sam? It’s frickin’ 2am.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Dean is just in boxers and a Zeppelin t-shirt. The corners of his eyes are still stuck together with sleep and his hair is sticking up in all directions. Same will never tell him, but at times like this, he could definitely be described as cute. As for him, he’s naked except for the towel round his waist, hair half-dried, occasional drops of water sliding their way down his chest and back. It’s the most skin they’ve shown each other in weeks. And suddenly Sam _wants._ Or at least, feels like he could.

And Dean’s apparently feeling the same way. Sam can see the same mixture of lust and hesitation he feels mirrored in his brother’s eyes.

“Listen, Sammy…” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep. “Let me help you forget about that bitch.”

“I… I’d like that.” And he would. He _would._

They’re both closing the distance between them, Sam is suddenly acutely aware of the coarsened fluff of the towel between his fingers and, looking down, realises he’s gripping it tightly in his right hand where the free end is tucked in. Whatever. He’s raising his head. The towel’s not important. What’s important is Dean, now close enough to reach out and touch.

So Sam does. Curves his left hand round his brother’s neck, pulls him close, kisses him.

After so long apart, they’re a little clumsy, both trying to fit their lips in the same bit of space, until Dean lets Sam suck his lower lip into his mouth, They stay like that for a few seconds. Sam thinks, this is what a _real_ kiss feels like, this is what kissing _Dean_ feels like, with his brother’s hands wrapped round his hips, nothing but bodyhot air between then, Except Dean’s still wearing his sleeping shirt, Sam remembers, and pulls back sharply so they can do something to rectify that. Hears Dean’s chuckle close to his ear as Sam grips the hem of his shirt.

“Patience Sammy, we’ll get to it.”

Sam starts at the words, something feels familiar and not in a good way but he manages to shove the feeling away, pulls the T-shirt over Dean’s head, leans in again to kiss him, tongue flicking in, lips pressing against his brother’s so he can create a seal and try to inhale Dean entirely. He has _missed_ this.

It’s several minutes later that Dean pulls away, they’re both gasping for air, just holding each other up in those heady seconds while they wait for the oxygen to rush back in.

Dean is the first to lean forward, licking along Sam’s right shoulder and up the side of his neck. Sam shudders as his brother’s teeth graze his skin in a gentle bite.

“Missed you.”

“You too.”

Sam doesn’t know who spoke first, but whichever way round it was, it’s still true.

And Dean is there, he’s real, kissing his way down Sam’s chest, nips and licks that send little shocks of lust down Sam’s spine, and he wants this, he does, he just feels so good, but it’s been so long, he’s afraid he’s forgotten how this works, how he works, and oh god, feels good and –

There’s a rush of air from his waist down to his ankles as Dean pulls at his towel and it drops away. Sam is suddenly aware that his mouth is flapping and least some of those thoughts made it out into the open air as actual speech. Dean’s on his knees, head tilted to one side so he can look up at Sam, smile fond and indulgent.

“Please tell me, you’re not gonna just talk all night?”

They’re not the exact same words he said to Lady Bevell. But they’re close enough.

“Stop.”

“Sammy?”

“Please! Just stop.”

“What’d I do?” Dean is all concern.

“You didn’t. I just-“ He can’t speak, can barely breathe.

“It’s ok man, it’s ok.”

And all at once, Sam is 6’4’’ of naked crying man in a bathroom that suddenly feels very, very cold.

Dean’s got his shirt back on and Sam didn’t see how that happened, Dean’s grabbed a bathrobe for him and Sam’s wearing it with no memory of putting it on and Dean’s leading Sam out of the bathroom and into Sam’s bedroom and all Sam can do is repeat “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Sammy.”

His name, spoken like that, warm and so full of love, is what finally snaps him out of it.”

“Dean?”

“You don’t have a thing to be sorry for, you hear me?”

“I…” _I know._ And he does. Really. It’s just hard sometimes to _believe_ it.

He tries again. “I did want to.” _I did want you._ “But what you said, it was just so close to something that… And I couldn’t stop thinking about it and, and…”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“Thanks.”

“Take all the time you need. We do this your way or not at all.”

Sam lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding in. Sometimes, and admittedly it’s not one of his strong points, but Sam loves him all the more for it whenever it happens, Dean knows exactly the right thing to say.

“Dean, it’s not just her… I…” He knows he doesn’t have to talk about it, and this isn’t really talking about it, but he feels like Dean should know.

“When it gets bad, I… I remember him too. Again.”

It’s impossible to miss the way Dean stills at that revelation.

“Like before? You can see him?”

“No. Just remember.”

“Since when?”

“Since Cas.” Sam whispers.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t happening that much. And we had Amara to deal with and focusing on that meant I could block it out. It’s just, it’s gotten worse recently. Since…”

He doesn’t have to explain what he means by that.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Well…” Sam can feel his brother hesitate, but Dean’s not going to push on this now. “You should try and get some sleep man.”

“Dean… can you, will you stay with me until I pass out? Just… on the bed?”

“Whatever you need.”

So that’s how Sam sleeps. Under the covers, with Dean lying on top of them, but pressed up close against his back. Like a jetpack. It takes a while for sleep to find him but when it finally arrives, it’s the deepest it’s been in weeks. He doesn’t wake up when Dean eventually leaves for his own bed.

Dean never mentions their abortive encounter in the bathroom and Sam doesn’t have a timeframe in mind for when he’d like to try again. Life is as close to normal as it ever gets. They keep an eye open for cases, Cas checks in every so often, but there’s no real news.

Dean’s quiet acceptance soothes Sam in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. For all they’ve never been _together_ together, for all that their sex has always been more passionate than romantic (Sam think he’s heard “love you Sammy” what, three times in almost 12 years?), for all that, somehow he’d trapped himself between feeling that he can’t be without Dean just now but can’t be _with_ him either. That Dean’s ceded control of what happens next with their whateveryoucallthisrelationship means so much. And that dry, hollow feeling inside Sam starts to fade a little, just a little.

The next time Sam feels the urge sneaks up on him out of the blue. It’s another morning, but not so early, and maybe it’s a Sunday morning, because he wakes to the smell of bacon frying and Dean doesn’t usually go to that much effort for workaday breakfasts. He heads to the bathroom, completes his usual morning washing rituals before heading back to his room to get dressed.

When Sam walks into the kitchen, Dean’s still in boxers and t-shirt, wearing a ridiculous apron that turns out to have “Hail to the Chef” emblazoned on the front. But Sam only notices that later. What draws his eye first is the way the material frames his brother’s ass. Even in the loose-fitting boxers he wears for sleeping, anyone can still see Dean’s ass is a fucking work of art.

“Breakfast Sam?”

The question pulls him out of his appreciative reverie.

“Yeah, what d’ya got?”

“Bacon, sausages, eggs, onion, toast. All the major food groups.”

“I’ll just have porridge, thanks.” He’s joking and he hopes Dean can tell.

“Don’t be a bitch all your life Sam, but here…” Dean turns away from the stove for a few seconds, “I _did_ make you a fresh orange juice.”

“Thanks man.” Sam is at first genuinely surprised, then touched, then suspicious of this one genuine concession to healthiness, of the whole breakfast operation. He fixes his brother with a sceptical stare, “Shit honey, did I forget our anniversary or something? I am soooo sorry.” He takes a sip. The juice is perfect, cold and just on the right side of sweet. Sam decides to drain the whole thing, then sets the glass on the table and sits down, “What’s all this about Dean?”

Dean cocks an eye at him over one shoulder as he busies himself with the pans on the stove.

“Can’t a guy do something nice for his brother?”

“Sure, but you have to admit, it’s suspicious as all hell.” Sam’s smiling as he says it. It _is_ nice, but Dean isn’t usually one for the grand gesture, unless it’s the prelude to a prank.

His brother doles out the food onto two plates and sets the two piles of steaming grease and cholesterol on the table.

“Dig in, you ungrateful sonofabitch.”

They eat in comfortable silence. Sure, Sam’s the health freak of the two of them, but even he appreciates the indulgence of a good fry-up every now and again. And he must have been hungry. He’s finished long before Dean. His brother apparently made more bacon than he knows what do with and is left finishing up the last couple of rashers in an impromptu sandwich that’s leaking butter and ketchup and is that grated cheese? Dean had got up to go to the fridge for something at one point. Watching him eat it is possibly one of the least sexy things Sam has ever seen. He’s got ketchup smeared round his mouth, cheese flakes fall from the sandwich with every bite Dean takes, his fingers are covered with butter and breadcrumbs and he’s taking massive bites like a starving man. _He needs a bigger mouth_ Sam thinks to himself and almost laughs. And then Dean’s finished, and is licking his sloppy fingers clean, no finesse and Sam’s seized with an overwhelming urge _to do it right_ and leaning forward, he takes his brother’s right wrist in his hands and sucks the index finger slowly into his mouth.

“Sam?” Dean sounds confused, but not averse to what’s happening.

“Sshhh. Just let me.” He feels Dean’s hand go heavy in his as the other man relaxes.

He sucks the finger into his mouth again, running his tongue along the underside as he does so, sucking off the crumbs and cheese, administering a quick little bite to the pad at the tip, savouring Dean’s sharp inhale in response. He flicks his tongue over the webbing between the index and middle finger, before pulling back and taking both fingers in his mouth, scraping his teeth over the skin on both sides as he sucks them in.

The tang of the tomato sauce on Dean’s skin is not Sam’s favourite flavour, but that doesn’t matter. Dean’s fingers are warm against his tongue as he swipes it down the inside of one and back up against the other. A stifled moan prompts him to look up, and he catches Dean’s eyelids fluttering closed. Eyelashes so long. So pretty. Dean would never stand to be called that and Sam will never tell him. But still, it’s true.

Gripping Dean’s wrist tightly, he pulls his brother’s fingers slowly out of his mouth, teeth a constant, teasing pressure over them. This is not something they’ve ever done before, but chancing another look, he can see it’s paying off. Cheeks flushed, fingers of his other hand curled tight into a fist, Dean is obviously not complaining.

Sam moves on to the ring finger next, lavishing it with attention like it’s Dean’s cock. He starts off slow, little swipes and swirls of his tongue over the tip. This stopped being about cleaning up breakfast crumbs a long time ago. With both his thumbs massaging gentle circles into Dean’s palm, he drags his tongue slowly up underside from the lowest joint to the tip, then kisses his way back down, lips pressing softly on the pads between each knuckle. It’s gentle, it’s intimate, it’s everything they usually aren’t and Dean’s just _letting_ him and it feels amazing. Want surges through Sam as he licks back up to the fingertip, forms his lips into a tight seal around it and draws the finger into his mouth, down to the root, sucking as if he would tear it off, pressure over every square millimetre of skin. The shudder that runs through Dean’s body reaches him as he feels Dean’s hand shake in his.

“Sammy…” Dean is desperate, wanting. And Sam wants to give him everything and more. It’s been too long.

“I got you.” And he has. He’s got this. Got his brother literally in the palm of his hand. Well, hands. “Just let me…”

“Just don’t stop.”

The pinkie is last so Sam thinks he’ll try something different, feeding it into his mouth one bite at a time until he reaches the webbing. He does the same in reverse as he moves it out of his mouth, little nips up the entire the length, ending with a sharp bite to the pad. There’s a short, cut off cry from Dean, but nothing that says he wants to stop. Sam bites his way back down again, then sucks and sucks and sucks until Dean’s finger is coated with saliva. Then parting his lips, finger still in his mouth, he huffs out a gentle breath over the spit-soaked skin. A few seconds, then his teeth close over Dean’s pinkie and Sam pulls off it so slowly he’s barely moving. He flicks his eyes to his left, where his brother is sat in his chair at the end of the table, head flung back, muscles in his neck taut like steel cables under tension. Just beautiful. He finally lets Dean’s finger fall from his mouth before dropping a gentle kiss on the tip. He slowly kisses the tip of each finger, working his way back to the thumb. He licks teasingly over the pad, before placing a last caressing kiss on the moist skin and laying his brother’s hand palm up on the table. He gets a gentle moan in response.

“You ok Dean?” Sam can’t keep the teasing tone out of his voice.

“Won’t be if you leave it at that.”

“You liked it huh?”

“Can’t you tell?”

Sam looks at him. Bed hair, bitten-red lips and face flushing, his brother is a poster boy for frustrated arousal.

“I guess I can.”

When Dean next speaks, Sam can tell it’s taking all his self-control not to push, not to show how badly he _wants,_ but also how much he _doesn’t_ want to force Sam to do anything he’s uncomfortable with, and watching the turmoil leaves Sam more turned on than he can remember in, well, forever.

“You wanna… find a bedroom?”

“’Find a bedroom’? That the best you can do? Where do you think we left them?”

Sam knows he shouldn’t poke the bear, but when the bear is this adorably strung out, it’s hard to resist.

“Fucking tease Sammy.”

“C’mere then.” He stands up and when Dean’s on his feet too, Sam pulls them together, thrusting his tongue into his brother’s mouth. He opens up for him, soft, wet and warm, their tongues slipping and sliding together and Sam feels like he’s coming home after a long time out in the cold. The cold of the bathroom. The cold of Hell. _No, don’t think about that, notthat._ Think about _this_. Dean’s lips against his, his tongue in Dean’s mouth, the warmth of Dean’s body seeping through Sam’s clothes. And again, there are too many clothes. Why are there always clothes? Anyone with Dean’s physique should be walking round naked all day. Sam’s sure there are laws about things like that.

He breaks off the kiss to make a plan.

“My room. Now.”

“You sure Sammy?” If Dean is hesitant, Sam knows it’s just because he’s worried about him.

“Absolutely.” And he is. “Just, just…” He wonders how they can avoid a repeat of what happened last time. And just like that, the answer drops into his head.

“Just keep quiet. And. And do everything I say.”

There’s a pause. They’ve definitely never done _this_ before.

“Can… can you do that?”

Dean snorts. “Make it a challenge, I can do anything.”

And that, that is _so_ Dean that Sam can’t help smiling. “Tell me if you need to stop and we’ll stop.” he says.

“Duh. Now didn’t you say we were going to your room? This looks like the kitchen and-“

“Shut up.”

And remarkably, Dean does.

Sam grabs his brother’s hand, brings it to his lips for a kiss, heart hammering in his chest. “Follow me.”

They get into Sam’s room almost at a run. As they get through the door, he’s kicking off his shoes and socks, Dean’s barefoot but still wearing that stupid apron. In seconds, Sam’s fingers are pulling at the strings, yanking the strap over his head, anything to get it off him as quickly as possible. The boxers and t-shirt follow a few seconds later. And Dean’s fully naked, half-hard and all Sam’s, ready to do whatever his little brother tells him. Sam shivers at the thought.

“Get on the bed. On your back.”

Dean turns to walk away from him, but Sam catches him by the wrist.

“Backwards. Eyes on me.”

The expression that slides across Dean’s face clearly says _Whatever bitch_ , but the best thing is that Dean _does it_ _anyway._ Slow, careful and deliberate, holding Sam’s gaze the whole time. He’s not posing, not putting any sway into his hips, but Sam still loves to watch him, watch the control and care Dean’s taking, not to lose his balance, not to seem fazed by the situation, and he finds himself anticipating what it would feel like to take all that precision away. Because that’s what he wants to do, Sam realises suddenly. That is what’s going to help. If Dean will let him do it. As he thinks that, he has to remember to breathe. They can do this, one step at a time. Together. His way or not at all. Dean had said that and he had meant it. It’s going to be ok, it’s going to be ok.

Sam’s internal crisis lasts all of two seconds and when he surfaces, Dean is still backing slowly away from him, one deliberate step at a time, until the backs of his legs bump up against Sam’s bed. He sits down, all constrained grace, like an animal on a leash, eyes never leaving Sam’s. Fuck he’s hot.

"Keep going." His voice sounds steadier than he feels, and as Dean leans back on his hands, brings his feet up on to the covers and starts to push himself back on the bed proper, Sam feels a wave of lust sweep over him and he knows he can do this.  
  
There's a noise from Dean that sounds like the beginning of "What next?" and Sam knows he can't risk it being something that derails them, derails _this_. So he rushes forward onto the bed and answers his brother with kisses, with the tight clasp of Dean's head in both Sam’s hands, thrusting down against his half-hard cock, swallowing the little whimpers his brother makes at the feel of the denim against the tender skin.  
  
Sam pulls back for a few seconds to appreciate the man writhing underneath him. Dean's breath is coming in short, staccato gasps, his eyes twin pools of lust that Sam could drown in. He's almost fully hard now and Sam can feel the press of his own cock against the zip of his jeans. Whatever this is, it's still working for both of them.  
  
"Undress me," he growls in Dean's ear, dragging his tongue slowly round the shell, before breathing lightly over the place he's just licked. He feels Dean shudder beneath him, then get to work, unbuttoning his shirt as Sam sucks teasingly on his earlobe. The shirt's undone and Sam's rearing up to shrug it off, Dean's hands are busy with the fastening of his jeans, thumbs hooking inside the waistband of his pants _and_ underwear, and pushing them down his legs. Sam moves to help slide them off and in a few seconds they're both naked, both hard and Dean is looking particularly pleased with himself for that trick.  
  
"Think you're so goddamn clever, don't you?"  
  
The look Dean's giving is him is all _You know I am bitch_ and Sam wants to wipe that expression off his face and into next week.  
  
He leans forward again, reaching past his brother to the nightstand, pulling out lube and a condom. For now, he leaves the condom on the covers beside Dean, who looks at him questioningly.  
  
"Leave it, you'll need it later. Hold out your hand."  
  
Dean does so, one raised eyebrow clearly saying _You're the boss. Freak._  
  
"You'll see Dean," Sam smirks "I know what I'm doing." He doesn't, not entirely, but it _feels_ right. He has an inkling why it's working for him, but when it comes to what it’s doing for Dean, Sam's completely in the dark. But neither of them is showing any sign of wanting to stop so... he'll keep going until that changes.  
  
He squeezes a decent amount of lube on to Dean's upturned palm and then backs away from until he's standing a few feet away from the end of the bed, setting the lube down on the floor nearby.

“Touch yourself. Don’t come.”

Dean’s hand is on his cock as soon as the words leave Sam’s mouth. They’ve jerked off for one another before, but Sam wouldn’t be surprised if the last time was years rather than months ago. It’s rare that he gets to see the whole of Dean like this, the gentle smattering of freckles over stretches of pale skin, his bright green eyes half-closed, legs spread and unashamedly pleasuring himself, raw and open and wanting so, so much. Sam can feel his own cock stiffen just watching him, he knows this picture Dean’s painting, the sounds he making, soft moans tumbling from his lips, are going to stay with him for a long, long time.

“Look at me, Dean.” It’s a command, not a request, Given gently, but still meant to be obeyed.

His brother raises his head, eyes snapping fully open.

Sam stands a little way away from the foot of the bed, turns around slowly until he has his back to Dean. Looking deliberately over his left shoulder so they can still see each other, he runs his hands teasingly down his back, moving down his ribs, to his waist and then his ass. Spreading his legs, he massages the muscles in his ass, pulling the cheeks apart as he bends slowly forward, showing himself off for Dean.

He hears a lust-filled moan from the bed, “Sa-“

“Shhhh.” He turns to look at this brother again. Dean’s still jacking himself, lips parted, whole body craned forward as he looks at what Sam’s offering.

“You want this… Don’t you, Dean?” The strain of holding himself in position, legs apart, bent in half, looking back towards the bed is almost unbearable, but it’s worth it all for the helpless nod he gets from his brother, the desperate hunger written in every aspect of Dean’s face.

Sam turns his head away to give his neck a break, then folds further forward, sliding his hands down the backs of his thighs, bent over for Dean’s viewing pleasure, loving the desperate little gasps he can hear from the bed.

When he starts to feel light-headed, Sam tenses in his core and very slowly straightens up, stroking his hands back up his legs as he does. It’s not the heights of ecstasy, but he is enjoying showing himself off like this. He’s not much of an exhibitionist, but doing this for Dean is another matter entirely.

Turning round to face his brother, Sam reaches for the lube and gives both his hands a good coating. Taking his cock in his hand, working himself leisurely, he approaches the bed, stops just short of the covers. Dean’s a wreck, cock leaking, breathing laboured and desperate, determination to see this through on Sam’s terms warring with the sheer want sparking through his body.

Dean’s a wreck and Sam’s barely touched him. It’s a power trip like nothing else.

“You still gonna do everything I say?”

Nod.

“Well then, you can have this. You can have me. Just… not yet.”

The answering groan sends little shivers of lust down Sam’s spine.

“And you gotta keep touching yourself while you wait. But if you come by yourself then this is over.”

Sam _really_ hopes that doesn’t happen. Obviously. Because then he too will be left all worked up with nowhere to go but the bathroom. Fortunately. Dean’s too far gone to make out the flaw in the reasoning.

“But I’m not gonna make it boring for you.”

He starts to make good on that promise, turning a little sideways so Dean can see, he begins working his dick lazily with one hand, slowly trailing the fingers of the other between his ass cheeks, starting a little at the coolness of the slick on his skin, but all that does is drive him forward into the grip of his own hand. He exhales sharply, hears Dean moan in response and slowly begins to work one finger inside himself. He hasn’t done this in longer than he can remember. Something so basic. They just haven’t had the time, even for the simple things. The lube starts to warm up as he circles round his hole, gently pushing, stretching, teasing. A long sigh drifts out of him as his index finger slips past the ring of muscle, and ever so slowly in, in, all the way in, warmth spreading out through his muscles from that tight embrace. He draws a slow circle with the fingertip inside him, pulling out slowly as he does, soothing, softening and relaxing before pushing slowly back in. He rocks forward as he does, tightening his hand around his cock, the twin pleasures sending a surge of arousal through him. A few more runs like that, and Sam adds his middle finger to the first, spreading himself that little bit more open, making himself that little bit more ready for Dean. Working his fingers apart inside his hole sends a shiver through him that makes it hard to keep his balance, but falling over is most definitely not part of the plan, so he manages to hold it together, glancing over at Dean waiting for him on the bed.

His brother is a beautiful mess. Sam can tell he’s painfully hard, hand moving slowly over his cock, eyes drinking in everything Sam is doing. Dean’s skin glistens with a slight sheen of sweat as he lies on Sam’s bed, torturing himself on Sam’s instructions, and the expression on his face says there’s nothing more he’d like right now than to be mouthing off about how Sam needs to stop being a teasing _bitch_ and _get over here and fucking_ _fuck me_ but he’s holding it back, bottom lip bitten shut, chest heaving, and love and lust swirl through Sam as he slips a third finger inside himself and begins to fuck back on to his hand like he’s on a mission. And in a very real sense, he is. Dean gives a drawn-out groan in response that Sam somehow hears through the lust-filled fog that’s replaced his brain. He’s finding it harder to concentrate now, lost in the double pleasure of his fingers grazing his prostate and his hand working his dick. It takes all his self-control to turn to face his brother and give the next instruction.

“Suit up.”

Dean winces slightly as he lets go of his over-sensitive dick. The head of it is leaking and Sam doesn’t know how long what’s coming next will last, but that really, really doesn’t matter. What matters is the two of them, in this together, as they are in everything else.

And letting go of his cock helps calm Sam a little, he can feel the tension in his balls, the need to come, subside a little, though the slight chill he feels as his fingers leave his hole sets the hairs rising on the back of his neck. Dean’s rolling the condom on to his dick and Sam grabs the lube to slick him up well. He’s open and more than ready, but they’re so close now, Sam can’t bear the thought of anything spoiling this.

He kneels up over Dean, legs astride his waist. His brother surges up to meet him and their lips crash together, the kiss needy, unrefined and just perfect. Sam lets it go on for a little while, savouring the warmth of Dean this close to him, the taste of him on Sam’s tongue and the little murmurs of arousal that escape from both of them.

When Sam very gently pushes Dean away from him, there’s a moment of resistance before his brother goes with it and just _melts_ into the bedcovers. He starts thrusting his hips upwards meaningfully, his cock catching between Sam’s ass cheeks.

“You are the worst person at being told what to do in the history of ever.”

 _You love it_. _Bitch._  Dean mouths back.

“That’s cheating. Jerk.”

 _Didn’t say I couldn’t_. Dean points out.

“Well I am now. Stop it. Or we stop this.”

There’s a little huff from Dean, accompanied by an eye-roll, but he complies, and just for that, Sam bends forward and kisses him again. It also has the added benefit of lifting his hips off Dean and when he pulls out of the kiss, Sam kneels up, reaches his lubed hand behind him and starts to guide Dean’s cock inside him.

Even with the preparation, he lowers himself slowly, thighs tight with the effort, savouring every second it takes to seat himself fully on Dean’s dick. Once Dean’s past the tightness of his opening, the friction is delicious, not enough to be painful and Sam feels himself relax as he takes his brother in, Dean’s so hard, stretching him wider than his fingers, filling Sam like nothing else, driving out that dry, hollow feeling that’s consumed him these last weeks.

He doesn’t wait to be told, but starts to fuck straight away, pulling up slowly then slamming down hard as if his life depended on it. Dean’s right there with him, arching up to meet him as Sam drops his hips again and again, his fingernails scoring desperate lines in Sam’s thighs. Sam grabs his brother’s hands, pins them above his head, sucks a claiming bruise into the side of Dean’s neck.

“Keep them there. I want… I need to see you… spread out for me.” Sam’s voice sounds strange, rough, even to him. But Dean does what he’s told, each hand clasping the opposite forearm, body shaking with the effort, when it’s obvious he so badly wants to touch, to hold, skin slick with sweat.

“Sammy...”

“Shhh.” Sam’s teasing, but he also really, really means it.

“Bitch.”

“Keep talking,” Sam thrusts his hips down sharply, the impact knocking the breath from both of them as they lock together “Jerk…and I’ll stop. Leave you hanging.”

“You… wouldn’t…” Dean pants out.

“No?”

It takes a supreme effort, and Sam’s not sure how he manages it, but he does. As he pulls up, he pulls off, locks his knees in against Dean’s hips and immediately slams his hands down over his brother’s interlocked arms to hold him in place.

“I told you not to talk.”

Dean struggles, so Sam just goes full Moose blanket on him, letting most of his weight rest on Dean’s chest and allowing gravity to do the bulk of the work in pinning him to the bed. He intertwines his fingers with Dean’s, clasping their hands together, and lowers his head beside his brother’s so his mouth is right next to Dean’s ear.

“Told you’d I’d stop.” His voice is a low growl. “Didn’t believe me, huh.”

Dean wriggles ineffectively underneath him, moaning softly. His meaning is obvious.

“But now you want more?”

Sam can feel Dean nod his head beside him.

“Well then, you know what you have to. You can promise to behave and we can carry on.”

Enthusiastic nodding.

“Or if I hear another word out of you, we’ll stop and you won’t even get to jerk off. Do you really want that?”

Emphatic head shaking.

“Ok. Good. I’m feeling generous, so you can make all the noise you want, but one word. I mean, one word, and we’re done. Got it?”

More nodding.

“Ok then.” Sam raises himself back up and finds the lube. He squirts a generous amount into his hand and reaches for Dean’s cock, works him again to spread the slick around, then slowly backs on once more.

They’re both frantic now. Denying himself just to make the point is not something Sam wants to have to do more than he can help it, he swivels his hips experimentally until he finds the right angle for Dean to hit his prostate with every thrust and then it’s not long before the coils of arousal in his groin start to build, sending shocks of pleasure juddering through his body. Beneath him, Dean isn’t doing much better, shivering and shuddering as Sam rams down on his cock, clenching tightly with every thrust.

And the _sounds_ Dean is making. He could seduce a nun away from a lifetime of celibacy. His brother is the king of dirty talk, but denied the power of speech, he’s finding brand new ways to make Sam’s brain melt. Dean’s hands are sheet-filled fists above his head, his breath coming in desperate little gasps as Sam fucks down hard, and when he jerks his hips just like _this_ Dean moans like he’s dying. Sam loves him for it. For all of this. It’s worked. He hasn’t once thought about-

No. _No._

He’s not going to start now. He stares down at the man in his bed. The only other person in the world right now. Sam grips his dick in his hand and starts to jack himself, focusing only on the man he loves. And Dean would never normally take it from him, couldn’t bear the admission or the compliment, but he’s promised to shut up and take it and now is Sam’s chance to say it.

“Love you Dean... So beautiful… So beautiful and all mine.”

It speaks volumes that Dean is so far gone, Sam doesn’t even get a raised eyebrow in response. He feels _all_ of Dean moving in and out of him, loses himself in those lust-lit green eyes, strokes one hand lovingly up the pale skin on the underside of Dean’s arm, and it’s almost like his brother _knows_ he needs help to keep his head in the action, because as Sam surges down, Dean suddenly goes rigid beneath him, every muscle trembling, still thrusting up, but losing the rhythm as his orgasm builds. He still isn’t speaking, but the beginning of Sam’s name is spilling out of his lips in little sighs as he shudders and shakes, and is finally overwhelmed.

Dean coming and coming apart as he rides him is the most beautiful thing Sam’s ever seen. Time stretches to an eternity that lasts mere seconds as he feels Dean pulsing deep inside him. And that’s all it takes, Sam’s coming too, hand gripping tight as he works himself, covering Dean’s chest and face with his seed and it’s everything and nothing, he couldn’t live without this, them together, Dean couldn’t live without him and they’re nothing special, but they’re their own special brand of fucked up, and this, this means more to Sam than anything else in this shitty world ever has or ever will.

And then even before the afterglow has worn off, of course Dean’s sitting up off the bed and pulling Sam down on top of him into an awkward, sticky hug, because nothing says “I love you” like smearing fast-cooling ejaculate all over your little brother’s chest.

“Love you bitch.” Sam hears in his left ear.

Of course.

“You too. Jerk.”

They stay like that for a while, until Dean softens enough to slip out and Sam rolls over on to the bed to lie beside him, feeling down on the floor for the box of tissues he keeps in his room. He passes a handful to Dean, then starts to clean himself up.

“You ok Sammy?”

“Little sticky, but I’ll be fine.” Dean trying to start a deep and meaningful with him was definitely not what Sam was expecting right now.

“So… you gonna need it like that every time from now on?”

Woah. Are they actually having this conversation? Sam decides to roll with it.

He shrugs. “I… don’t know? It helped. For now. I knew I wasn’t going to say anything that would remind me of her… or him. And I could make sure you didn’t. It just helped, helped me focus I guess.”

He waits for Dean to say something but his brother is silent.

“Was it… was it ok? For you? I mean, I should say ‘thank you’ right? God that’s inadequate. I, I, I know it was a lot to just come out and ask for like that and, I’m sorry, and-“

Before he can say another word, Dean’s lips are on his, Dean’s tongue is in his mouth making further speech impossible. Sam relaxes into the kiss, moans gently into his brother’s mouth, happy to just enjoy it for as long as Dean wants it go on for.

“What’d I say to you before Sam?”

“Can you uh, be a little more specific?”

“You don’t,” Dean leans in again, kisses him on the corner of his mouth, pulls back a hair’s breadth, “have anything,” kisses him on the cheekbone, swipes his tongue over the spot, breath ghosting over Sam’s skin “to apologise for. Not this time.”

“Oh.”

“Next time we do this,” there’s a mischievous gleam in Dean’s eyes as he looks across at his brother, “maybe you’ll have to gag me.”

That sounds… that sounds considerably more than ok actually. Sam mentally awards himself the trophy for Understatement Of The Year. But he has to be sure.

“So… you saying you… _enjoyed_ it like that?”

“I thought they only let smart people into Stanford Sammy?”

Then Sam hits him with a pillow and after that, it is _so_ on.

\---

Sam still takes long baths at odd hours, but not quite as many. And he’s still losing time every so often. But it’s better. It’s better.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> ::mounts the Official Sam Girl High Horse:: Ahem. This is wish fulfilment on a massive scale, and yes I am aware. I love Cas very much, but after his decision to let Lucifer into his vessel in Season 11 which had so many repercussions for Sam that were just... never really dealt with, I needed someone to Acknowledge Sam's Pain Goshdammit. And so we have my version of Dean. Who is possibly a more emotionally literate version of himself than the show incarnation. Because after 12 years, I credit him with the ability to mature as a human being, even if the scripts don't always allow him the same luxury. And yes, I know Sam has been "healed" but after everything he's been through, particularly his recent encounter with Toni Bevell, I can't believe that there isn't some deep mental scarring inside the Moose head. You can make him better, but you can never give him a blank slate. But anyway... ::dismounts the Official Sam Girl High Horse::
> 
> All concrit welcomed, hope you enjoyed it, and if you got this far, thanks for reading!


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